‘Your lot were supposed to be working on it,’ said Gwen rather curtly. ‘She wouldn’t have just taken off somewhere without a word. She looked after Beth, her older sister. She wouldn’t have left her. Beth has a mental disability. Terry had to put her in a home when Ruth disappeared.’
‘Did Terry ever mention trying to find Ruth?’
‘All the friggin’ time,’ said Macklin. ‘He was obsessed about finding her.’
The mystery of the photos on the wall of Lawler’s flat began to make sense to Tara. Terry Lawler had put all his investigative experience into finding his sister. In doing so, had he unearthed connections to the disappearances of other girls? Maybe the team at the station had already discovered a link between the girls in the photos. Had Lawler’s search led him to find a killer – a serial killer – and had this killer seen to it that Lawler should get no further with his investigation?
Chapter 21
Guy
I tucked into a Full English at a service area on the M1. I was famished. It had been a busy yet productive night, made extra special by collecting my second girl in 24 hours. I’d never done that before. And what made it doubly satisfying was that Victoria and Lucy were two of the very best I’d ever had. Still had to pinch myself at the thought of snatching an upper class specimen and then a TV star for dessert. It would be hard to top that: I realised that much already.
I’d chosen a table situated below a television, and fortunately it was tuned to Sky News. Early days yet, but I wondered if Victoria or Lucy’s disappearance had been discovered and made public. Their bodies were still in the back of my van. With a bit of luck my snatches had not yet triggered any alarm and I would have time to get them out to sea before any searches got underway. I hoped also that there would not be any connection made between the two girls disappearing. London is a big place, no real reason why they should. I guessed that I had at least another day before I saw any pictures on the news. The girls would be long gone by then.
I sat back in the chair to let my breakfast get down, and I began to relax slightly as I sipped on my mug of piping hot tea. Even for a pro like me, you still get a big rush of adrenalin when you kill someone, and on every occasion my body shakes and tingles in a nervy way when I put a beautiful creature to sleep. Like I said before, I’m not a natural killer; it’s just a necessary part of the job so I don’t get caught. Funny thing is that it’s never got any easier with time and experience. I get by because I’ve learned to divorce myself from the killing part. Once I’ve had my fun, I try my best not to think of the girls as the warm soft beauties they were before I gave them the needle. It helps me deal with disposing of the body. I’m just tidying after me, like I’m doing the washing up.
Satisfied that nothing was going to flash on the TV, I finished my tea and thought it best to get back on the road. I’d moored Mother Freedom in Whitehaven, quite a distance north of Liverpool, and I needed to sail before dawn the next morning. As I got to my feet I noticed something appear on the news and, suddenly, I felt the need to sit back down. There was a report on a press conference given by Merseyside Police. A caption at the bottom of the screen indicated that it had taken place the day before. A middle-aged, thin-faced officer was talking and I heard him mention the name Lawler. A young-looking girl was seated next to the man, but she wasn’t saying anything and I didn’t reckon on her being a policewoman anyway – looked no more than 18. I had to watch for several minutes before I deduced that they were talking about the murder of this Lawler bloke. I knew exactly who he was, of course. The prick brother of Cindy, the journalist who was investigating the disappearance of his sister. And now, what do you know? He’s turned up dead. Serves the bastard right for sticking his nose in where it weren’t wanted. I wondered how far his wee investigation had gone. At least now the death of Cindy, or Ruth – may as well use her real name – was no different from any of the others. Nobody was searching for her and I was in the clear.
The thin cop was now answering questions from reporters. It was difficult to hear what the press guys were saying but the cop seemed to be repeating his appeal for information on Lawler’s last movements. Then suddenly he turns and stares at this wee girl beside him. Could have knocked me down with a feather – she was a bloody cop, a detective inspector. I thought, I must be getting old if that wee slip of a thing was a police detective. Some journalist had asked if Lawler was connected to the disappearance of young women on Merseyside in the last few years. I nearly burst out laughing. Instead of Lawler being hailed as the investigator of Ruth’s disappearance, here they were trying to pin what were probably my kills on him. Fills you with confidence for the police in this country. The poor wee thing – Tara was her name – didn’t seem sure of what to say, but it seemed obvious to me they hadn’t a clue what was going on.
My attention remained fixed now on Detective Inspector Tara Grogan of the Merseyside Police. I wasn’t worried in the slightest that she might be coming after me. Just the opposite. She was certainly a tasty wee thing. Blonde hair tied back, nice big fiery eyes and a pout that would put any Hollywood great to shame. Sky News, as they do, tend to dwell on a story for prolonged periods; I suppose they have air time to fill like any other channel. I didn’t mind. I was happy to gaze on the cute face of Tara Grogan. Now, right in front of me on the TV, I saw my next big challenge – a cop, they don’t come any harder than that. Didn’t even see the point in giving her another name. Here’s to meeting you, young Tara.
Chapter 22
Tara
Matt Sullivan was not quite the man Tara had been expecting to meet. She’d imagined a middle-aged, pot-bellied Labour councillor with a gift for presenting himself as a man of the people, a grafter like the dockers of old, a man who fought tirelessly for social rights of the working classes. She couldn’t yet decide upon his politics or his motives, but in appearance she couldn’t have been more wrong about Councillor Sullivan. Barely 30, a wad of thick black curls, trim, athletic, a cheeky smile and a trendy suit, Matt Sullivan led Tara and Murray into his office.
As she placed herself upon a battered wooden chair long since past the point of merely requiring re-upholstering, she glanced about the pit Sullivan used in his role as a manager in his father’s haulage firm. Murray had to remain standing as Sullivan gathered files from his chair behind a bomb-site of a desk.
‘And what can I do for you, Inspector,’ he said in a more refined accent than Tara had expected. She noticed that his eyes were firmly set upon her breasts. Even when he dared glance at Murray, his eyes returned not to her face but to the opening in her blouse. Trying to ignore his sexual proclivity, she didn’t believe for a second that Sullivan hadn’t been warned of her coming by his friend Evan Blackley.
‘I’m sure you’re aware, Councillor, that we are investigating the murder of Terry Lawler, and since you had cause to run up against him in the past I wondered if you had seen him in the days leading up to his death.’
‘And when was that exactly?’
‘Last Tuesday evening.’
‘You certainly get straight to the point, Inspector. But what you really want to know is, did I kill Terry Lawler? And the answer to that question is no. I didn’t like him much and he crossed me more than once, but I never wished him dead.’
‘Can you please tell us when you last saw him?’ Murray said with a trace of impatience in his voice. Sullivan had to remove his eyes from Tara’s chest to look up at Murray. As he did so the cheeky smile vanished.
‘You know, Inspector, there is nothing illegal or improper in my dealings with Evan Blackley. He is a successful property developer and I am simply doing what I can to get the best deal for the council. After all, it’s public money I’m dealing with.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind telling us when you last saw Mr Lawler?’ said Tara.
‘Lawler was a bully. Did you know that, Inspector? He might not have used his fists or threatened violence, but he had the power to destroy reputations simply by writing som
e tosh in a newspaper. He did it once before as I’m sure you know. But when he came to Evan this time, and then he came to me, neither one of us was going to cave in.’
‘Very convenient for you both that he ended up dead on Crosby Beach,’ said Murray.
‘Like I said, Inspector, we had nothing to hide, everything was above board. We had no reason to kill Lawler.’
‘You said that he came to see you after he met with Mr Blackley. When exactly was that?’ Tara asked. She noticed already that Sullivan possessed that remarkable politician’s trait of never answering the question that was put to him.
‘I threatened him with court again. Told him he could print what he liked but he’d pay for it, just as he did before.’
‘Mr Sullivan,’ said Tara. ‘It is our belief that Evan Blackley, his wife and you were probably the last people to see Terry Lawler alive. That makes you a suspect in his murder. Please take time to consider that before I ask you once again to tell me exactly when you last saw Mr Lawler?’
‘This is ridiculous. I’m an elected official on the council …’
‘When did you last see him, Councillor?’ Tara’s face coloured as her voice hardened. ‘I can always bring you along to the station if you’d prefer.’
Sullivan stared blankly, yet still at Tara’s breasts. He scratched his head, wrung his hands, glanced at his watch then rubbed a hand across his mouth. Tara could see he was fighting a battle of conscience, but she wasn’t sure if he was about to land himself or someone else in trouble.
‘Okay. I saw him the night before he died.’
‘We’ve already deduced that much,’ said Murray. ‘Exactly when and where, please?’
‘How confidential is this, Inspector?’
‘Depends on what you have to tell us.’
He resumed the fidgeting and the preoccupation with Tara’s chest.
‘He came to my home, late on Tuesday night.’
‘What time?’
‘Close to midnight. He’d just left Blackley’s and I suppose he came to warn me that the story was going ahead.’
‘Seems very decent of him considering that he’d told Blackley the same thing before calling with you?’ Sullivan had taken to chewing his nails and tiny beads of sweat emerged on his cheeks. ‘Did Mr Lawler have another reason for dropping by so late?’
Sullivan nodded several times before he spoke. It seemed he’d finally succumbed to the pressure he was feeling in being interviewed by the police.
‘He guessed that I’d have company, Inspector.’
‘And was he correct?’
‘I’m having an affair with Councillor Doreen Leitch. She’s married, in case you don’t know. Lawler saw us together in a restaurant a few weeks ago. He called last Tuesday to tell me that if he didn’t get anywhere with the housing story he would certainly have fun revealing my affair with Doreen.’
‘What happened when he called at your house?’
‘Told me he’d seen Doreen arrive. He’d been watching us through the window. By the time he rang the doorbell, Doreen was naked and so was I. He stood at my front door laughing. He knew he’d got me by the balls.’
‘And then?’
‘He backed away and I slammed the door. I know how it looks, Inspector, but that’s it. That’s the last time I saw him.’
‘And Councillor Leitch?’
‘She went home in a bit of a state.’
‘So you have no alibi for the remainder of that night?’
****
They left Councillor Sullivan to his personal battle of fear. If they didn’t charge him with murder, the press were likely to uncover his affair or at least his unpopular dealings with Evan Blackley. Tara feared the case was growing very messy. People with a motive for killing Lawler were popping up from all corners. She worried also that Tweedy would be thinking she was out of her depth, unable to cope. Strange how quickly stress can bring on a headache. She lay reclined in the front seat as Murray drove them back to the station. It had been a gruesome killing and yet somehow she struggled to sympathise with the plight of Terry Lawler. She couldn’t help wondering, though, about his sister Ruth, the one who disappeared. And now it seemed she had another suspect to query – Councillor Doreen Leitch.
Chapter 23
Guy
My head was buzzing. Couldn’t settle myself. Awake half the night. I had visions of all my girls, all mixed together, like they’d formed a gang in the afterlife and they were coming to get me. During the day I drank heavily, vodka mostly. I hadn’t been to work in two weeks and I thought maybe it was time to move on – to a new job, a new town, a new country even, France or Spain, Canada maybe. I’d just done the best two fillies I’d ever had. Nothing to beat them. And here I was going over and over in my head, the time I did wee Millie and then stuck-up Gemma, and how she came round on the boat and I had to do her again. Was I beginning to feel guilt? Who knows? And then all the messed-up pictures I was seeing switched off in my head and all I could think about was this wee cop, Tara Grogan. It had to mean something. Was it a warning from my sub-conscience, telling me to leave off, that taking a peeler was a step too far? I just kept drinking and passing out. I hadn’t eaten a decent meal for days. My guts were full of cramps; I couldn’t take a shite; I didn’t shave or wash and my clothes were stinking. She must be a hell of a woman to have that effect on me.
The first thing to bring me round a bit, to sober me up, was the story on the news about the disappearance of a young soap star in London. Lucy had been at the bottom of the Irish Sea for a week, lying right beside Lady Victoria. No news of her so far. Didn’t matter, I was in the clear. Looking forward to watching it all recreated on Crimewatch. Brilliant programme, the way they do those reconstructions. I wondered how much they’d managed to piece together on Lucy. The television news mentioned her car abandoned outside her gym. Her colleagues on the daytime TV series told the press they were unaware of anything troubling the young actress. Her boyfriend, an up-and-coming footballer, had been interviewed, but all family were at a loss to explain Lucy’s disappearance. That’s the way I liked it. Straight out of my textbook. No clues, no CCTV, no reasons for Lucy to scarper. And then a couple of nights later, on the 6pm news, they said that a friend had received a text message from Lucy on the day she disappeared, stating that she had a flat tyre, that a man was helping her, and she was going to be late for an audition. So this Good Samaritan was the number one suspect. Not great news but considering the way I had to work down in London I reckoned I got off with it all right. It was time I pulled myself together.
My first shift back at the hospital was a Saturday night. Worst shift of the week. Drunks, muckers from Anfield and Goodison, punching each other out. Blood and broken noses everywhere and we porters had to wheel the bastards all over the show – down to X-ray, back to A&E, up to a ward if there was, miracle of all miracles, a bed available. The whole time those poor innocent people, sick kids, disabled, pensioners had to wait quietly for their turn while these useless twats jumped the queue because they managed to kick up a row. Not much chat between the staff on a Saturday night. Nurses too busy and not enough doctors. It makes me so mad when government ministers tell us the health service is running efficiently, that everything is being done to improve the system. I’d like to bring one of them down here at 2am on a Sunday morning and get them to deal with one of those football louts. See how they take that.
The one thing about all the chaos in a hospital, though, for me life moves at a tremendous pace. Shifts change, staff change. No time to dwell much on the past. What I’m thinking about here is that Cindy, or Ruth’s, name never gets mentioned now. It’s only been five months. No one has ever spoken to me about her. Somebody must have noticed us chatting, heard us flirting. Maybe another nurse was well aware that I had asked Cindy out on a date. Nothing. And then her brother ends up dead on a beach. Some things are just meant to be. Sweet.
I thought it a bit strange how news of Lady Victoria sort of gradually
crept into the news. Maybe at first the family were trying to avoid publicity. Maybe they didn’t want a fuss. Maybe they reckoned on their daughter having gone off somewhere with a lover, someone not entirely in keeping with the family’s standing in polite society. Sounds like the early 1900s doesn’t it? But maybe Victoria was prone to spontaneous disappearance. Nothing strange in her escaping for a while. This time, though, the family were in for a shock. Victoria wouldn’t be coming home to a parental scolding or a family lecture. They would live in hope on their country estate, for years perhaps, but she was never going to turn up living in a kibbutz or sharing an artist’s studio in Corsica. I felt sorry in a way that I could never tell her family that Victoria was the tastiest bit of skirt I’d ever had. Maybe there is something in the breeding.
After a couple of days of the story loitering in the side columns of the daily papers, someone in ITN thought it worthy of broadcast news. They described it on the evening bulletin as a baffling mystery with no clues to Victoria’s whereabouts and no evidence that she had been snatched. But the best bit for me was that no one proposed a link to the missing soap star Lucy. How good am I? It’s just like in football when a team begins to build a run of victories; the confidence levels rise and suddenly they’re unstoppable. That’s how I felt. Tara Grogan was my next target and I had every confidence of success.
Chapter 24
Tara
Tara considered herself fortunate that she still had friends. Good friends. But every now and then she had to remember that fact and make an effort to spend some time with them. Kate had a busy job at the hospital; she had a partner and she had a baby daughter. Aisling worked odd times, late into the night, early mornings; her work and social life were almost indistinguishable. She planned events, big events, like fashion shows, celebrity appearances, film and music promotions, all that PR stuff, where she might be required to stand around making a room look beautiful. Her friends led hectic lives and at times Tara felt guilty being the one to raise excuses when she couldn’t make it to dinner or to the cinema, or even a night at home with the girls. It felt lame to say ‘I can’t make it’; ‘I’m working late’;’ I’m on a case’. She didn’t want to sound as if her job mattered more than Kate’s or even Aisling’s, but most of the time she did feel that way. Her job came with her everywhere. So much thinking to be done. It couldn’t be switched off at the end of a shift. Some nights she woke up in a sweat, petrified of failure, of missing a lead or a link, of the guilty being passed over. At least she slept alone. How could she ever share her bed with someone when she couldn’t share her worries, her problems? At times she felt so alone. If only she had her baby son.
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 9